Genesis: Chaos
by inkedhymnal
Summary: You'd think Fate would give the heroes of Japan a break for saving their beloved country...yeah right! Fate has summoned five warriors of the Meiji Era to a new and disturbing Japan. Will they make it or break it this time around?


Genesis: Chaos

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Phase 1 

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            The sky was stained a deep red as the sun slowly sank beneath the horizon, the moon forcing the massive ball of light from its throne to stake its own claim in the sky. The land began to grow quiet, and yet it began to stir. Creatures of day yawned, making their beds, while beasts of night blinked away their day of sleep. 

            Yet, the sun would not relinquish its throne without paying back the moon for its usurpation. With it, the sun dragged away the warmth that bathed the world during day, and left it cold and barren, letting the moon look down upon a world of shivering creatures. 

            A lonely man, cloaked in a straw robe, his feet covered by torn bamboo sandals, slowly shuffled down the road. His spirits were gone. For days he had run, trying against all hope to find a place where humanity thrived. It was not to be. Fate had been having a good laugh at him as of late, and no matter how he tried, he could not cut the puppet strings that led him from one disaster to the next. 

            Suddenly, the fates turned over a card of kindness. Ahead, the man could make out the glowing of a fire, along with the smell of meat and the sound of water. He clutched his throat and stomach, suddenly realizing how tired, thirsty, and hungry he truly was. In elation at the fate's sudden change of tune, he hurtled towards the fire. 

            Sitting inside its glow, was a young man, though at first it might have been impossible to tell whether it truly was a man and not a young girl. He could not have even reached twenty, still ripe with adolescent looks. He sat cross-legged on the ground, wrapped in a blanket of cheap wool, hands wrapped with bandages hugging a small teacup. His eyes were a soft, colored violet, with a mass of disheveled hair atop his head, a small ponytail reaching his shoulder blades. Under the blanket was a simple outfit fit for a wandering swordsman – blue shirt tucked into darker blue pants, which disappeared into shin braces tied with straps to worn down bamboo shoes. 

            "Excuse me, sir, may I share your fire tonight?" asked the lone man.

            The boy looked up, blinked, and nodded, "Certainly." His voice was soft and rusty, as if not often used. 

            "Thank you. I am Kasugiro, a warrior for hire," the man said, sitting down. "Who might you be?" 

            The boy looked at him, cocking his head to the side, "What is it to you, mercenary?" 

            The man shrugged, "I would just like to know with whom I dine." 

            The boy sipped his tea, "Soujirou." 

            The man nodded as the boy, who called himself Sojiro, passed him a cracked cup and poured some tea, "Nice strong name. What's a fine boy like you doing out here?" 

            The boy blinked at him again and smiled softly, "Just wandering, that's all."

            The man shrugged and sipped his tea. It was delicious, but then again, wouldn't any man say that after a week with warm, dirt infested water to drunk and only hard, dried meat strips to eat?  The boy made no comments as the man ravenously ate what was set before him, and silently offered him more then his fair share when he had finished his first course. He didn't even ask questions when the man asked to share his fire for the rest of the night. Soujirou merely shrugged and rolled out a well-worn futon, settling on his back, violet eyes focused on the stars. 

            "So, Sojiro, where are you headed?" the man finally asked. 

            Soujirou turned his eyes to him, never moving his body, "Whatever village I come to next, I suppose."

            The man asked no more and Soujirou turned back to the stars. As the boy lay there, the man noticed something inside the futon. It was a sword hilt. The man's curiosity was caught. Why would a boy not even eighteen and obviously not of noble samurai decent have a sword? The hilt was fine and polished, far better kept then the boy himself. The blade itself, or what little was visible, seemed well sharpened. 

            "Yes?" Soujirou asked, having noticed the man staring. 

            The man shook his head, "Nothing. Do you have a last name, Soujirou-sama?" 

            Soujirou sat up, staring at the man, eyes suddenly becoming colder. "Yes. My last name is Seta, Mr. Kasugiro," Soujirou said coldly.  

            "Seta Soujirou?" Kasugiro repeated, weighing the name on his tongue. Suddenly, the man was up, his own concealed sword out and ready, eyes wide. "Seta Soujirou! One of the Kyoto Arch from one year ago!" 

            "Now, do you really want to do that, Mr. Kasugiro?" asked Soujirou, pasting that smile on his face again.

            Kasugiro smiled, "There is a heavy price on your head boy. Anyone who brings it will get the £1000 yen promised!"

            Slowly, every so slowly, Soujirou pulled out his prized Kikuichimonji-norimune, brandishing it lightly as Kasugiro backed off, making room for a fight. The smile was still on his face as Soujirou walked out into the clear area, "Mr. Kasugiro, I hope you do not hate me in the after life for this." 

            "It is I who should say that," Kasugiro hissed. 

            Soujirou just smiled, "I am known as the Tenken, Mr. Kasugiro. And what's more, we are miles from the borders of Takata. There will be no one to bury you body once I have sliced off your head." 

            Kasugiro just snorted and charged. 

[

            The seaside town of Hakata was quite as it went about its daily business. Fishermen set out for sea, the small island of Iki a small lump of green just beyond the borders of sea and sky. A soft wind blew through the village, cooling the women folk as they gutted catches brought in from the night crews, and the sun bathed the children in warmth as they went about their chores and play. 

            Situated outside the main bustle of the town was a small house, barely five rooms and scarcely furnished. No one went near it. It wasn't that anyone bad lived there, it was just the person who did was rather unsocial, and what was more, he broke the law all the time. He carried kodachis, or so the men called them. Most the women and children did not know the names of weapons when they saw them. 

            One young girl had actual gone to the man to deliver fish he had ordered. She had come home with a tale of a man whose eyes were devoid of human emotion, though his purse was full. He had given her more then the fish was worth, telling her to keep the rest for herself and her friends. But the girl refused to go again, saying the man was too scary. Since then, no little girl ever went there – told to or no. Some boys ventured there to deliver his items, but the money was now always left out by the door and ready for them when they got there. Never did they see him. 

            In this same house, on the same day the villagers were waking to now, the said man was sipping tea quietly, looking over a proposal from a government official visiting from Yawata. 

            "So, what do you say?" the official asked, tugging at his mustache nervously. 

            The man shrugged, his kimono tied loosely. He had just come in from early morning meditation, and was going to head out for his early morning training exercise when the official appeared. 

            "You won't do it then, will you?" the official asked, disappointment clear in his voice. 

            Again, the house owner shrugged, "I shall give it thought. I have enjoyed life here. It would be a shame to leave." 

            "I understand," the official said. "I shall give you time to think. I need to return Yawata and finish business there. More officials are coming from Honshu, and I must be there to greet them. I shall return in two weeks. I pray you will have thought it over by then." 

            "Of course, sir," the man said and bowed, his head touching the floor. "Good day, and a safe journey." The official nodded and slid the simple shoji door open, stepping out, leaving the owner sitting on his tatami. 

            The man rose from the tatami and slipped into his private rooms, quickly changing into a simple outfit of purple jacket and pants, along with black leather shoes, and a long beige overcoat. Silently, he moved to a small mirror hanging on the wall. His lips spread in an unemotional line as he stared at himself. His hair was still that same slate black color, the bangs hung in his face a little and the back reached a little father down the nape of his neck, but it still was that same cut as one year ago. He was as tall as ever, in perfect condition. But his eyes, still that greenish gray they always had been…but now they had a little more shine to them. Maybe even a little life. 

            With a chuckle, he turned from the mirror and silently tucked his two kodachis into special loops on the back of his pants. He made his way back through the rooms, sliding open the shoji that served as a front door and stepped out onto the terrace of his home. 

            That was far as he went. It suddenly struck him how quiet it was. And now that he thought about it, he had not heard the governor's carriage go on its way. There had been no clopping of horses' hooves, or the crack of a driver's whip. Cautiously, he sniffed. Blood. His eyes looked around the compound, looking for bodies. There were none and the carriage seemed to be gone too. But that was impossible.

            Like a lion stalking its prey, the man stepped off the terrace and walked down the path a little ways – watching, listening, and waiting. His patience paid off. 

            Three men dropped from the trees, followed by three bodies – a driver, a footman, and the governor, all dead. The man looked at the three surrounding him with emotionless eyes, calm and collected.

            "Tell us, are you Aoshi Shinomori?" one of the black clad men asked. He kicked the body of the governor. "If not, then they died in vain." 

            "And if I happened to be him, what do you plan to do?" asked the man slowly, weighing each word down with poison. 

            A second of the trio stepped forward, a pair of numb-chucks in his hands, "Then prepare to die." 

            Aoshi took in the three calmly, and shrugged. He pulled forth his two kodachis and readied himself for a fight. In fact, he was more then ready for one. It was time he spilled some blood again. 

[

            The town was a buzz with excitement. It was the first time in many years that it had such an event. Every young man in the village was entering it, and even some older men, who probably had the advantage of wisdom. The whole thing was simple. It was a tournament, hosted by the Miss Kaoru Kamiya. She, her trainee Yahiko Myojin, and the man known as Sanosuke Sagara were to also fight. Everyone knew they had saved Kyoto a year ago, but the men had little fear. The man known as Kenshin Himura, a border at the Kamiya School had been the real hero, and he was not entered. 

            Atop a small hill outside the town, three men sat together, watching the preparations, Kaoru at their center with Yahiko. The wind blew softly over the hill, ruffling the bushy red hair of Kenshin Himura, his violet eyes closed as he lay back in the grass, inhaling its scent, his Sakabatou set aside for the time being. He wore his usual maroon colored kimono, newly washed and smelling of soap. His hair was much the same, as it should right after a bath. 

            On one side of him sat Sanosuke "Zanza" Sagara. His friend, deep brown hair fluttering in the gentle breeze, had readopted his old fighting name after returning. Because of this, he had been more or less away from the School, going around on jobs and for once paying for his won meals. He had been perfecting his futae no kiwami as well, able to stand up to Saitou for more then two minutes now. What was different though, was he had reversed his outfit. It was now black with white kanji on the back, though it still read the name 'evil'. 

            On his other side sat Saitou Hajime, as always dressed in his police uniform, his katana sitting by his side. He had come to visit after the finish of the Kyoto clean up. All the Kyoto Arch had been rounded up and all the repairs had been made. He was on his way home to visit his wife and adopted son, but had decided to stop for a little bit when he heard of the tournament. He said he had come for the laughs of watching Sanosuke fight, but Kenshin had detected something else hidden beneath his words. He didn't press it; just let it stand, as was Kenshin's nature. His hair was still slicked back with those four sharp bangs dangling over his eyes, still as primal as a wolf's. His face might have softened a little, but that was up for debate between Sanosuke and Kenshin. 

            "Hey, Saitou, help me warm up, will you?" Sanosuke suddenly asked.

            Saitou looked at Sanosuke with a raised eyebrow, "Are you sure? If you did that, you'd loose to the smallest kid entering this thing."

            "You don't have to be so mean about it!" Sanosuke growled. 

            Kenshin sighed, "Now, guys, let's not fight. It's such a nice day out!" 

            Saitou stood up, brining his katana with him, "Come on then, Rooster. Let's go."

            "My name is Sanosuke!" Sanosuke spat. "Can't you get anything right?" 

            Saitou shrugged, "I really don't have to practice with you, you know." 

            "Fine, come on," Sanosuke groaned. He stood and Kenshin turned over to watch the skirmish. 

            Saitou drew his katana and slid into a defensive position, "You know the drill." 

            Sanosuke nodded. Saitou had been a lot of help in his training. Sanosuke had definitely improved in the few days Saitou had been here, helping him during training sessions. 

            The air seemed to still as the two squared off. Tension grew and Kenshin saw the nearly invisible flex of Sanosuke's arm as he prepared to launch an attack. Kenshin doubted that anybody else besides himself and Saitou knew the attack pattern, but they hoped to never be up against Sanosuke in a serious fight anyway. Saitou would never admit it, but if Saitou didn't try pretty hard to not get punched, he'd have a few cracked ribs by now. 

            Sanosuke leapt foreword, his right arm drawn back, his left before him. Saitou made his stance more solid as he prepared to defend the impending blow. He switched his blade to the flat said and waiter. Sanosuke kept charging and was quickly within Saitou's striking distance. Saitou drew back on his lowest leg and began to swing his sword out wide to the right. 

            Sanosuke saw the move and dove, sliding on the side of his leg right under the blade and pushed up on that same leg, sending Saitou flying with a punch to the jaw. Saitou flipped in the air and landed easily on his feet. He sniffed. He should have seen that coming, but as of late it had become a little harder to read Sanosuke. He had his temper more under control then when he last fought. 

            No matter. This time Saitou sprang foreword in challenge. He made a simple swing to the left, causing Sanosuke to dodge, which was what Saitou expected. Instantly, Saitou dug into the earth and reversed the swing, ripping Sanosuke's shirt wide open and leaving a trail of blood dribbling down his chest. 

            Sanosuke winced and jumped back as Saitou flipped, recovering his balance. His blade was stained red on the tip where he had cut Sanosuke. Sanosuke wiped away the blood on his chest. It was just a nick, nothing serious. He raised a hand and made a motion for Saitou to come at him again. 

            Saitou grinned maliciously. It was Sanosuke's funeral. 


End file.
